


take everything from me

by HipsterGavroche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Grantaire's Birthday, M/M, Suicide Attempt, grantaire's headspace is messy, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2480933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipsterGavroche/pseuds/HipsterGavroche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire would prefer if no one knew what day it was, but he tends to get emotional when he’s drinking wine and watching Disney movies. Not to mention, Musichetta had known him back in high school. Before anything ever went down on his birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy warnings for depression/suicide ideation.   
> Title from Rebel Beat by The Goo Goo Dolls. Another chapter or 2 coming soon. Hope you enjoy, and please leave a comment if you do!

Exactly three people alive knew the date of Grantaire’s birthday- himself, Jehan, and Musichetta. The latter two had sworn an oath to never say a word, and like hell was Grantaire going to tell anyone.

Which is why it came as a surprise when he woke up the morning of the day he dreaded most to a text from Courfeyrac, inviting him to his place for drinks that night. Grantaire frowned. They had just been there last night. Or, this morning, he supposed, seeing as his clock said it was nearly eleven and the heavy drinks had definitely come out after midnight. So why the fuck would they be going back unless….

 

Courfeyrac had a thing for making birthdays a bigger deal than they should be. Last year on Enjolras’s birthday he had paid a disco probably a ridiculous amount to have a France themed night, complete with a pop punk version of Le Marseille playing at random intervals throughout the party. It had actually been pretty enjoyable, but maybe that was just the expressions on Enjolras’s face. This year on Bossuet’s birthday they had stayed in at the Musain, where the back room had been festooned with ridiculous birthday decorations. It had been nice as well, even if it was just because Courf paid the beer tab. Bahorel’s had been even bigger, complete with a bar fight that had left three of them with broken noses.

But Grantaire...Grantaire couldn’t, he /wouldn’t/, allow Courf to celebrate his birthday like that. In fact, he doesn’t want to leave the house. But staying home when Courf invited them all over would be worse. Maybe.

He rolls over, kicking blankets off of himself. He sends a text to Jehan and Musichetta- “i swear, if either of you fuckers told him”- and grabs a hoodie off the floor. He doesn’t bother combing his hair, just starts the coffee machine and pulls on a pair of jeans. Both of them respond almost immediately with protestations- there was no way he could know, it wasn’t them. Grantaire regrets ever bringing it up. He’d prefer if no one knew, but he tends to get emotional when he’s drinking wine and watching Disney movies. Not to mention, Musichetta had known him back in high school. Before anything ever went down on his birthday. 

He spends the day fucking around with some paint, not wanting to leave the apartment, despite the fact that he has an art history class at 2. Feuilly calls him and asks if he’s free, but he makes some half assed excuse about paint fumes in his apartment that he needs to clear out. He starts drinking with the whiskey in his coffee. By 4pm he can feel the effects of inebriation already, but mentally congratulates himself on not being plastered by 3 like he was last year.

He’s getting ready to go over to Courf’s apartment and thanking the fact that Jehan and Musichetta decided to leave him alone today for once when Jehan calls him. Grantaire steels himself, knowing the poet has only the best of intentions, and picks up. 

“Are you alright?” the voice on the other end asks quickly. 

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says, trying to sound cavalier. “Are you going to Courf’s tonight?”

“Cut the bullshit, R. I know you’re not fine, and I’m trying to prevent what happened last year from happening again.”

“Don’t you fucking remind me,” Grantaire spits out. 

“Sorry,” The immediate response is apologetic. “I wasn’t trying to...trigger anything. But honestly, Grantaire, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If going to Courf’s party would be bad for you…”

Grantaire shakes his head, more for himself than for Jehan. “I’m going. No one needs to know...no one needs to know that anything’s wrong. I don’t want them to know. And...maybe being social might be good for me. It’d stop me from lazing around like a sick alcoholic fuck, right?” He attempts a laugh, but it falls bitter and flat.

“Really, R, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to. I could come over and keep you company. We could tell them you’re ill.”

“I’m heading over there now.”

Jehan’s quiet for a long moment. “Okay, R. You’re free to come home with me at the end of the night.”

“Alright. I love you, Jehan,” he says, in an effort to make sure Jehan knows he’s not mad at him. 

“Love you too.”

Grantaire hangs up and grabs a bottle of flavored tequila he’d never drink by itself to bring over to Courf’s house. It’s within walking distance, a good thing for someone who doesn't trust himself to have the foresight to always drive sober.

He suddenly takes pause when he’s outside the door, and a wave of fear flashes over him. Somehow, Courf could have found out. But he doesn’t want to be paranoid, right? He throws on a grin as he knocks on the door.

Courf opens it, then sees him and immediately slams the door shut again. “SHIT, WAIT ONE SEC!” he yells. Grantaire barely has time to think before he hears another yell, “COME IN!”

He opens the door, and is greeted with his friends jumping out. “Happy birthday!” they yell at once, and Grantaire feels his world collapsing.

He’s spent years trying to convince himself that his birthday doesn’t exist, because it’s been easier for him that way. Easier than remembering when in his sophomore year of high school, he tried to kill himself on his birthday.

It wasn’t really planned or anything. Nothing went catastrophically wrong that day. His dad had even gotten him some gifts- nothing special, but they were reminders that his father still existed in his life. But that night everything had seemed to collide, and it only took a third of a bottle of vodka to convince himself that life wasn’t worth living anymore. 

It had been pills he chose. No one in his house owned a gun. Razors seemed like too much work through his blurry vision. Pills seemed like the easy way out, and, he figured, if he took enough, foolproof. 

Ironically enough, it was antidepressants. Antidepressants and a full bottle of vodka that put him out. That left him lying in a bathtub at 3am when his sister found him. He’d gone to the hospital and had his stomach pumped, and when he woke up the next morning he was in an empty hospital room. His dad had evidently decided to go to work for once, and his sister had gone to school the way normal kids did. He had fucked up, he knew that, but mostly he hated himself for failing.  
Ever since then, his birthday had been nothing but bad memories. He didn’t want to celebrate being a fuck up. 

He was still standing there, but he plasters a fake grin on and acts happy. “Thanks, Courf,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder as he’s handed a drink.   
He’s searching for answers, because how the fuck could Courf have known? Jehan or Musichetta could have lied to him, they could have thought this would be good, something, anything… Why would they… they knew…

He downs the drink faster than normal. He hates the attention. Why would anyone waste a birthday party on him? He smiles and jokes, drinks Courf’s fruity concoctions. He avoids Jehan because he knows if he has a moment of honesty he’ll break down. He smiles a bit too much and tries to enjoy it, but he can’t push the thoughts out of his head. 

They’re all there- every last one of them, even Enjolras. He wonders how much Courf told them beforehand- after all, Jehan must have known this was going to happen. He pushes that thought out of his mind and instead focuses on looking happy. Musichetta smiles at him, looking concerned but not saying anything. Her approach is much more subtle, but he can’t even stand being around her, not when he thinks back to how nice she’s been every birthday since.

At some point a game of Twister is broken out, and Grantaire’s just drunk enough to enjoy it. Combeferre and Enjolras sit out, as is typical of them. The game ends when they all collapse on each other while reaching for drinks. 

He ends up alone in the kitchen with Courfeyrac for a moment sometime in the middle of the night. “How the fuck did you find out?” he asks, adding a perfectly timed laugh. Around most of them, he’s used to this. He’s used to knowing they won’t understand how he really feels (because it’s irrational, he tells himself, it’s ridiculous) so he fakes a crooked smile. It’s never failed him before.

“Ah, come on, mate. It’s not really that hard to track down a birth certificate.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire says, laughing again, but he doesn’t show his eyes. He takes another sip and stumbles forward a little bit. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air, maybe a cig. I’ll be right back in,” he says, going past Joly and Bossuet and making a joke as he passes to get out to the balcony.

He leans hard against the concrete and searches in his jeans pocket for a cigarette. There’s a crushed box and a lighter, and he grabs the last cigarette out. His hands are shaking as he lights it. He’d been doing pretty good at giving up smoking, but goddamn, if alcohol isn’t working, maybe something will. 

He looks up to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. They’re not involved in this, they’re trying to have a good time, fuck your goddamn emotions R…

He glances back inside. Jehan’s watching him. Grantaire smiles and gives him a thumbs up. It’s not so easy to fool Jehan, but Grantaire won’t let him interfere. He turns back to the view of the sun setting on the cityscape and blows smoke out.

The door’s opening up, and he’s nearly positive it’s Jehan. It’s not. It’s Enjolras, and Grantaire is fully expecting himself to ignore the other man. Enjolras probably just came out to make a call or something, he’s not…

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks suddenly, and Grantaire can feel his stomach drop. 

“I’m fine, Apollo, why?” Grantaire asks, holding up his cigarette.

“You seem...a bit off.”

Grantaire shakes his head, leaning on the balcony rail. “Just fine. You don’t have to bother with me. Go enjoy the party.”

“I don’t tend to enjoy parties.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

Enjolras is quiet, and Grantaire can feel him looking at him. The wind whips around his hair and puts out his cigarette. He stubs the rest of it on the balcony railing, feeling stubborn.

“Happy birthday, Grantaire.”

“Don’t.” Grantaire turns away, from Enjolras, turns to go back inside.

“Grantaire-” Enjolras grabs his arm, and Grantaire has to turn to face him. And then, Enjolras is leaning towards him, and he’s /so/ close, and it’s all Grantaire can do to kiss him back softly. Then…

“Shit.” Grantaire barely exhales the word, he hears the cigarette he was holding drop to the balcony floor.

“Shit,” he says, louder this time, and Enjolras jerks back like he’s been burned, but Grantaire is the one who’s been burned. His arm feels like it’s been branded by Enjolras’s lean fingers, and his lips still feel warm from being pressed up against Enjolras’s. 

He’s whipping himself around, going through the glass door, where it seems nobody was paying close enough attention to see what happened. “I’ve got to go,” he says desperately, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack and a bottle of whiskey. “Thanks Courf.”

He runs down the stairs but stumbles once he gets out to the street. Vaguely he thinks he hears a voice and footsteps behind him, but he runs until he gets back to his apartment building. He goes up the fire escape- quite a feat when his vision is going blurry (whether it’s from alcohol or the kiss he doesn’t know)- but he doesn’t want anyone following him. He climbs in through the kitchen window and practically collapses on the floor. 

Fuck, that wasn’t real, /fuck/.

Grantaire can only find one thought among this all, and it’s that the kiss wasn’t for real. If it’s true that he didn’t hallucinate, and he’s pretty fucking sure he didn’t because he can still feeling the pressure of those lips on his, then there’s only one option. It was pity for something. If Courf could find out his birthday, then he could probably find the medical records showing the time he got his stomach pumped in 10th grade. And it would take very little connecting the dots from there. Courf and Enjolras are best friends, Courf must have told someone, and if he told Enjolras, well, Enjolras has always had shitty ways of making people feel better. It was a pity kiss. It was a pity kiss because Enjolras knew Grantaire tried to kill himself 12 years ago on his birthday and he wanted him to feel less worthless or something, because he’s spouted bullshit before about how everyone deserves to feel worth.

He’s wrong, he’s fucking wrong, and Grantaire doesn’t want his pity. He uncaps the whiskey bottle and wonders if he drinks this all at one go, if it’ll work or if it’ll land him right back in an empty hospital room. He’s stronger than he was in high school. He has a stronger stomach. But he also has more alcohol. 

He curls in on himself before he’s even done with the bottle because it all hurts already and he doesn’t want the pain to happen. But the pain’s in his chest and there’s a ringing in his ears and it takes him a long time to realize it’s someone buzzing into his apartment. Jehan can get up himself and he knows he can get in without a key because Grantaire always forgets to lock his door. So it’s got to be the only one of them who’s never been to Grantaire’s apartment, and Grantaire doesn’t want to face him right now.

He feels pathetic. He is pathetic. He’s a pathetic drunk who’s about to throw up on his kitchen floor and pass out in it. The buzzing stops, and knocking starts. He won’t allow this to happen. Then it stops, and the door opens. 

“Honey,” Musichetta says almost instantly, flying to his side. 

“Go’way,” Grantaire mumbles, rolling over. He tries to lift the whiskey bottle to his mouth but he doesn’t have the strength. 

The bottle is wrenched from his grasp. “You have to get to bed, R. You’ll feel like shit tomorrow, but it will be worse if you sleep on the kitchen floor.”

Grantaire allows her to pull him up by the arms. He still wants to die, but suddenly the promise of sleep seems almost more appealing. He doesn’t have to exert effort for that. An arm is slung around Musichetta’s shoulders and he drags himself along towards his bedroom, before collapsing on the mattress. 

“Where s’jolras?” he mutters, his eyes already slipping shut as he feels a blanket being tugged over him.

“He wanted to see you, but I told him it could wait,” she says soothingly, rubbing his back. “We shouldn’t have let you go to that party, R.”

“Notchurfault,” Grantaire slurs out, leaning into her.

“Shh, R. Go to bed, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Grantaire knows she’s lying, but slipping away feels so nice. It’s a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind he always gets when he’s hammered. It’s the kind of sleep he likes best. The kind he wishes would never end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire faces the world again, but maybe for once he was right about his pessimism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse before it gets better, but it will. Thank you so much for all those who commented and left kudos, hope you enjoy!

He wakes up and knows it’s late in the day. There’s the smell of something burning in his apartment. His head jerks up, but a pain hits him at the temples almost immediately. It’s fucking /bright/, and his head has a tiny army of soldiers stabbing at the inside of his skull.

He must have let out a cry of pain, because instantly Jehan is at his side. He’s got a glass of water and helps Grantaire drink out of it. He keeps his eyes closed, and hears Jehan saying soothing things.

“Sorry,” he mutters, his mouth feeling dry despite the water.

“Don’t be sorry, R.” Jehan combs back his hair.

“Is my apartment still intact?” Grantaire asks, becoming aware again of the burning scent.

Jehan scowls. “I’m cooking breakfast.”

Grantaire nods. “Okay.”

“Stay right here, I’ll bring some food back.” Grantaire manages to maneuver himself into a mostly sitting position against a corner of the wall and some pillows. Jehan returns with a plate of blackened bacon and scrambled eggs.

“Okay, so maybe they’re a bit burned. You can’t really judge. It’s better than anything you could cook in this state.”

"Coffee,” Grantaire mumbles, his eyes opening up a little bit farther.

“Here,” Jehan says, sliding a mug over to him and grinning.

“What the fuck would I do without you,” Grantaire mumbles as a way of thank you as he sips at the coffee.

“Probably have much more painful hangovers,” Jehan says cheerily. “Eat up. It’ll feel better with a full stomach.”

Grantaire acquiesces, taking bites off the plate. “I’m really sorry, Jehan,” he says again, somberly, still sounding half drunk to himself.

Jehan shakes his head fervently. “It’s not your fault. I should have stopped it while I could. But it got away from me, and I thought…” he looks down. “I thought it might be better with company. I was wrong.”

“You... Didn’t see what happened, did you?”

“What, R?” Jehan says, looking at him, but Grantaire lowers his eyes. “What did Enjolras say to you? Because I am not above fucking him up. Bahorel nearly punched him when you ran out.”

“It’s… he was trying to be nice.”

“Enjolras fails at that a lot. Tell me, R.”

“He kissed me.” This takes even Jehan aback. He sits back on his heels.

“He kissed you.”

Grantaire nods in affirmation, then says into his coffee, “He kissed me.”

“And… that’s when you ran out?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Not like that, fuck,” Grantaire says, setting down his coffee in a dent in his mattress and burying his head in his knees. “It was pity, or something, I don’t know.”

“R, sweetheart…”

“Don’t start with me. It wasn’t real. He knew somehow. He knew what happened on my birthday and he wanted to make me feel better. Something like that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t make assumptions until you talk to him.”

“I never want to see him again.”

Jehan sighs. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Fuck, goddammit, I know,” Grantaire says, anger rising in his voice. “I want to kiss him again, but I can’t, I won’t believe it was for real. Why did he have to-” his voice breaks, and his chest starts shaking. “Why did he have to kiss me yesterday, of all days…”

Jehan puts an arm around Grantaire. “He didn’t know, Grantaire. No one does. Courf found out your birthday, and we didn’t have much of a choice. We figured you wouldn’t want them to know why you hadn’t told them. We just said you’d never made a big deal of it before, but you know Courf.”

“He was trying to make things better,” Grantaire sobs, rocking back and forth. “I can’t fucking accept kindness- why he was wasting his kindness on me, I don’t know-”

“Shh, Grantaire, he didn’t know why you were resistant to this. And let me tell you, you deserve every ounce of kindness you receive. I’m just sorry it can’t make you feel better.”

“Don’t say that, don’t say that,” he whispers. He hears the plate being moved to the floor as he sinks into Jehan’s side.

“You don’t have to face any of them today. Tomorrow, you can talk to them all. Tell them you were drunk, tell them the truth, whatever. But you have to talk to Enjolras too,” Jehan says once his sobs have subsided.

“Okay.” Grantaire’s voice sounds detached and childish.

“No one hates you, R. Except for you.”

***

Grantaire goes to bed early and wakes up feeling significantly better than the day before. He attends his morning class and then comes back to his apartment. He sends a mass text to everyone, including Enjolras, apologizing and saying he got sick. He knows no one's going to actually buy it, but he’s bombarded with texts telling him to feel better. Predictably, there's nothing from Enjolras. Eventually he can’t ignore the silence anymore, so he sends off a text.

_should we talk? -R_

_Yes. I crossed some boundaries, it’s clear. I apologize for doing so. If you are comfortable speaking to me in person I’m free this afternoon. -E_

_yeah. i can be at your place at 1. -R_

_Okay. See you then. -E_

Grantaire wants to drink, but he knows that won’t help anything. He tries smoking, but then he begins comparing the weight of the cigarette between his lips to how it felt kissing Enjolras and he throws the rest of his pack out. He gives in and drinks a beer, lazing around before finally leaving ridiculously early to get to Enjolras’s apartment. He waits outside the door, pacing back and forth.

I crossed some boundaries. Dear god, did he, but Grantaire would be so okay with that if it were under different circumstances. But Enjolras doesn’t want anything to do with him. He can live with that, he tells himself. He can live with that. They just need to sort this out, Enjolras can say sorry, Grantaire can say it’s okay, don’t worry about it, and they can pretend like it never happen. Drunk kisses happen all the time at parties.

Just not with the love of your life.

Finally he knocks at five till 1. Enjolras opens the door almost immediately. He’s dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans and Grantaire is so inferior to him. He steps in.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras blurts as soon as he’s inside. “I shouldn’t have moved on you, especially not when you were inebriated and didn’t have full control of the situation. I should have confirmed your consent first, before moving in on you, and I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

Grantaire lets a nervous laugh. “It’s fine, Enjolras. Don’t worry about it.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen a bit, like he’s surprised. “You’re okay?”

“Peachy.”

“And the kiss…”

“I kissed you back, didn’t I? I was drunk, you’d had a beer and I know how much of a lightweight you are. This happens all the time at parties, Apollo.”

“And you were okay after you left?”

“I drank too much. But what else is new?”

Enjolras shuffles on his feet, then looks up at Grantaire. “It was your birthday,” he states plainly.

“Regrettably.”

“You… don’t seem okay with this. For someone who will use midterms as an excuse to hold a party, it seems like you should be more...enthusiastic.”

Grantaire’s gaze hardens as his eyes meet Enjolras’s. “Why the hell do you care?”

“Contrary to popular belief, Grantaire, I care about you as a member of les amis.”

Grantaire snorts. “Wow, I’ve been promoted to member rather than drunk cynic in the corner.”

“You’ve always been a part of our group, Grantaire. We wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“Probably a lot more productive.”

Enjolras is getting red in the face and frustrated, furling his brow. “We /do/ care about you, Grantaire! You hold together the group both as friends and as the opposing voice, which we value- we always need new viewpoints, and yours is a unique perspective. Yes, you’re not always constructive, being neither is, say, Courfeyrac, and I still value him just as much as you!”

Grantaire can hardly process this and he knows he’ll be playing this moment over in his mind for the next week. He’s numb, like a deer in the headlights, and he’s sure Enjolras sees his terror. His first instinct is to bolt, but that would be counterproductive to what he’s trying to prove here. Silence consumes him.

“So are you going to tell me, Grantaire,” Enjolras starts again, sounding just a little bit exasperated, “why exactly you hate your birthday?”

“I never said I hated it.”

“I may be shit at interacting with other people, but I can on occasion pick up on emotions.”

“It’s not a story I particularly like sharing.”

Enjolras scratches at the back of his head. “I’m not going to push you, Grantaire. But I am here if you need me.”

“I…” Grantaire trails off. Looking at Enjolras now, he looks innocent and light, so different than the fiery and passionate speaker he’s seen up on a pedestal before. “It was 10th grade.” He’s still standing up, looking rather defensive, so he leans back against Enjolras’s sideboard. Enjolras himself is leaning against the counter across the room.

“It was 10th grade and I hated life and I tried to kill myself with antidepressents and vodka on my 16th birthday and I’ve never particularly enjoyed celebrating it since, sorry I’m a fuck up who couldn’t even kill himself even though it’d probably be a lot better for you now especially because I can’t even celebrate my own birthday-” Grantaire knows he’s rambling, but tears are pricking at his eyes. He pushes away from the sideboard and heads towards the door, but Enjolras blocks him.

“I won’t let you leave again,” he says softly, pressing a hand against Grantaire’s shoulder as he looks him in the eyes. Grantaire can’t breathe. He has to sit down on the couch, which is thankfully close.

“You can’t understand, I don’t expect you to…”

“I can’t, you’re right, but I respect your experiences,” Enjolras says, sitting next to him on the sofa. “I understand how mental illness works. I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you were struggling with.”

“Don’t say that,” Grantaire says, burying his head in his hands as he leans forward on his knees, trying to get more air in his lungs. “You’re supposed to call me pathetic and a fuck up and tell me I’m worthless, and I’ll just smile and laugh because I’m used to it….”

Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath. “Grantaire, I’m sorry if I’ve made you felt that way before. It was… not my intent. I’ve reexamined your role in the group and how I’ve viewed you, and I realized that I was making conclusions before I knew you. Now I feel quite differently.”

Grantaire looks up at him. “Your first conclusions were right, Enjolras, please don’t change them. I don’t know what difference you’ve seen in my drinking and cynicalness, because trust me, that hasn’t decreased at all.”

Enjolras considers for a moment. “I’m no longer judging you based solely on those facts, Grantaire. You’re so much more than that. And I would like to understand you more.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand, you shouldn’t /like/ me-”

“I do, Grantaire.” Enjolras is picking up Grantaire’s hand and surely he can feel his pulse racing? “I like you, certainly.”

Did that really just happen?

Grantaire can hardly breathe. “I’m in love with you,” he blurts. “Fuck, fuck, why did I say that, I need to get out of here-!”

He pulls away from Enjolras’s hand, and this time he’s stronger and faster. He gets out of the door and down the first flight of stairs before he hears footsteps behind him and Enjolras yelling after him. He runs to the Corinthe, only a street over, hoping he’s lost Enjolras in the crowd.

“Tonic and gin,” he tells the bartender, sitting down, still a little out of breath. He grabs his phone and texts Jehan.

/i told him i loved him help me jehan -R/

/I’m proud of you, R. what did he say back? -J/

/i ran away because i’m a goddamn coward -R/

/of course you aren’t. go back when you feel ready. -J/

/ok ill be there next millenium -R/

/R i swear to god i will rip you limb from limb c: -J/

/fine. ill text him. -R/

/good enough -J/

Grantaire finishes his drink and picks up his phone again. His fingers are trembling as he types out a text.

/i shouldnt have said that. ignore it. ignore me. -R/

/R. We need to talk. In person. -E/

/not again please not again -R/

/Please come back to my apartment. -E/

Grantaire can’t make himself respond. He stumbles off his barstool, accidentally hitting a large bloke who seems like a particularly classy individual, given that he’s wasted at 1pm on a Sunday.

“Watch where you’re going.” The man scowls at Grantaire, and he’s got the strength of Bahorel but none of the smile lines around his eyes.

Grantaire is falling apart.

“Maybe you should worry about yourself more than others,” Grantaire objects, and he tries to pretend it’s Enjolras he’s arguing with. But he doesn’t think Enjolras would punch him in the face, and this guy is.

Grantaire gets half into a defensive pose and tries to throw a punch before he’s knocked to the ground by another fist careening into his cheek. He feels his limbs hit the ground, but all he can think of is how Enjolras’s face looks when he’s disappointed.


End file.
